


The Crispy Shepherd (Ch7)

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Deleted Scenes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: Sherlock and John have six weeks to kill before Moriarty’s trial. John leaves bored Sherlock in the flat only to come back to quite a surprise. Fun and fluff.





	The Crispy Shepherd (Ch7)

**Author's Note:**

> Part 7 of "deleted scenes" style fic [The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1158497)  
> Almost all parts can be read as stand-alone stories but read better together. The Memoirs fit between or during episodes of the Sherlock TV show. At the beginning of each part, I'll be indicating when in the show the part takes place. Consequently, there are gaps between my stories where the episodes of the show fit it.
> 
> The next few chapters take place before Moriarty’s trial, (The Reichenbach Fall -S2 E3) during the six weeks Moriarty was in custody after his break-ins to the Crown Jewels chamber/Bank of England/Pentonville Prison.  
> I wanted to use the last moments of John’s and Sherlock’s domestic bliss before everything went to shit.

 

 

There seemed to be dead silence when it came to serious cases during the first of the six weeks Moriarty was waiting for his sentence. Sherlock solved a small case here and there but nothing to sustain his brain sufficiently was on the horizon. 

 

“BORED!” Sherlock’s yell reached John the moment he entered the sitting room. 

“Nope’” John swiveled on his heel and out the door he went.  

“Jooooohn!” 

“No way, Sherlock. You're not dragging me into this,” he yelled from behind the closed door.  

“Boooooored!” came another desperate cry as John was already putting his jacket on to leave the house.  

John came back after a nice walk in the park, visit to the bank and the local grocery store, where he avoided the self-checkout like the plague. Making himself absent for almost three hours was bound to have changed Sherlock's mood. Whether it was for better or worse he was about to find out.  

The rooms were quiet when he entered through the front door and a smell of something delicious being cooked filled the place. He had to remember to ask Mrs. Hudson if she would leave some of it for them to eat for dinner. As he ascended the stairs, a small tingle of uncertainty poked John in the back of his mind. Was it foolish to leave Sherlock alone in a bored state?  

John had never been certain if he’d found and gotten rid of all the drugs. Sherlock hid them in the weirdest places in the house. His gut did a little flip at the mere thought of what Sherlock might have done to himself while John hadn’t been there to stop him. A bombshell larger than he had imagined was waiting for him. 

John opened the door and a gust of a savoury smell hit his nostrils.  _What on earth?_ The delicious, spicy aroma he had smelled was coming from their kitchen. Had Mrs. Hudson already brought the food upstairs? Had Sherlock done something stupid and had she tried to placate him with food? That wouldn’t work in a million years, John was certain of that, as he was the one constantly nagging Sherlock to eat. He’d been successful on that account on several occasions but it hadn’t been easy. A plethora of thoughts ran through his head within the few seconds it took him to step into the room. 

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” John opened the door and carefully stepped inside, aware that bullets or God knows what else could come flying at him. 

“Here,” came a voice from the kitchen and Sherlock emerged a moment after. 

“Oh my God, what happened?” John's chest was immediately hit with a wave of regret at leaving as he saw Sherlock's face. He leaped over to him and gripped him by the arms. “Tell me what happened? Why are you crying? Is Mycroft ok, are your parents? It’s Greg, isn’t it?” 

“Greg?” Sherlock gave John a confused stare, “I haven’t been crying. Ok, yes I have but it’s hardly my fault,” Sherlock’s collected demeanor defied his peculiar countenance. 

“That's ok. That’s fine. We'll figure it out together, just tell me what happened,” John was leaning towards confusion as opposed to the panic that had been trying to take over.  _Just keep calm and soldier on._  He'd never seen Sherlock crying like that, with red eyes and the streaks of tear marks on his smooth face like on window glass during rain.  

“I’ve been cutting onions,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly as he turned and waltzed back into the kitchen, not acknowledging John’s concern in the slightest. 

The cessation of John’s train of thoughts had been so abrupt it was almost tangible. He stood dumbstruck in the middle of the room with mouth agape.  

“Catching flies, John?” Sherlock’s voice was filled with amusement. 

“What… what are you making?” John inspected the kitchen which was, as always, full of Sherlock’s clutter. Tonight, it was a completely different sort clutter than John was used to. There was a frying pan on the stove with minced meat on it, the table was covered with remnants of meat, potato peels and carrots. 

“Shepherd's Pie,” Sherlock replied with a detectable triumph in his voice. “Mrs. Hudson came after you  _left_ _me_  and complained about my noise. Then suggested I should cook something. So here I am,” he waved his hands presenting the utter mess he turned the kitchen into. 

“And you,  _you_ , the great Sherlock Holmes went to the store to get ingredients?” John was radiant with amusement. 

“Contain yourself, John. Mrs. Hudson gave me the recipe and the ingredients. It’s easy, you just have to follow the instructions,” 

John snorted at the mention of Sherlock following instructions. He couldn’t follow the rules of bloody Cluedo. Now that John’s concern had faded, he could appreciate the view of Sherlock’s forearms and notice that the rolled-up sleeves of the white shirt he wore were covered in flour. 

There was some flour in Sherlock’s hair too; the dark curls sprinkled with a thin veil of white powder in front. How did he get flour in his hair anyway? He didn’t even need flour to make Shepherd’s pie...That might not even be flour. One can never know with Sherlock Holmes. The biggest man-sized mystery John had yet to solve. 

As Sherlock went back to cutting, John yearned to come closer. The domestic air in the kitchen made Sherlock seem more approachable and John let his body lead him. He stepped behind the cooking detective and wrapped his arms around him so that he could clasp them on Sherlock’s abdomen. Sherlock froze, his body tensed, right hand holding the knife mid-air. 

“Don’t stop. I just want to… stay here like this.” John put his cheek on Sherlock's back and inhaled and exhaled slowly, before his breathing fell into calm rhythm. John could feel Sherlock’s tense muscles relax a bit under his touch as he wordlessly kept cutting the onions. The fast tap tap tap of the knife on the wooden board was mirroring the staccato rhythm of John’s heart.  

John’s cheeks were still cold from his trip outside but they were quickly warming up against Sherlock’s back, as was the rest of his body. John let his eyes flutter close to enjoy the moment, the warm expanse of Sherlock’s back against him, the tiny movements of his back muscles. Despite the scent of cooking in the air, John was close enough to inhale Sherlock’s redolence. Cologne mixed with his own unique fragrance. John let himself bask in it sighing contentedly.  

Sherlock put the chopped onions into the saucepan next to the board where oil and carrots were already waiting and all sounds ceased abruptly.  

“What happened? You stopped,” John inquired, his arms still around the detective, feeling Sherlock’s inhale of breath in the muscles under his fingertips. 

“I chopped them all.” 

“What’s next?” Sherlock fell silent apart from the soft sound of his breathing. “Hmm?” John murmured the follow-up question into Sherlock’s shoulder blade. 

“I don’t want to move,” came the uncharacteristically quiet response.   

John felt his throat tighten as he shifted to face Sherlock. He took his flour-stained face into his palms and looked into the eyes which were desperately trying to avoid his. John swiped the salty moisture from Sherlock's cheeks with his thumbs.  

“You’re such an idiot,” John announced a second before he brushed his lips over Sherlock’s. Their eyes met then but the kiss remained slow and gentle, unlike any other kiss they shared before. This was different, John realized. It wasn’t an animalistic release of tension; it was a slow-burning choice. Acceptance of the new reality. The saltiness of Sherlock’s lips mixed with the heat of his mouth tasted like an ocean in the summer. Vast, unknown and taken with a pinch of salt. Just the way John preferred his detective.  

Sherlock’s hands moved up John’s back until one rested on his nape and the other in his hair, pulling John closer into the kiss, enveloping John’s smaller frame in the embrace. Sherlock’s soft lips were gentle yet so demanding, they left John craving more. More of the kiss, more of the touch, more of Sherlock. 

It was Sherlock who broke the kiss, his hands oh John's shoulders holding him at arm's length and searching John’s face. John felt the blush creep up his cheeks under the scrutiny. Sherlock’s eyes seemed to mirror his own, but John could never be sure what went on behind them. 

“You’ll do your thing and let me know if you need a hand...helping hand. If you need help. I’ll see if there’s anything in the papers,” John managed to say through his tight throat. 

“Right,” the reply was sober-sounding but the left side of Sherlock’s mouth lifted slightly. John started moving away slowly, walking backwards to the sitting room. He relished the gradual slide of Sherlock’s hands along his arms and forearms, until their fingers brushed before they were completely separated from each other. He felt that searing touch, filled with yearning, was more intimate than anything they’d ever done before. Because that touch wasn’t a means to an end, but the static electricity that flowed between their fingertips brought pleasure in and of itself.  

John couldn’t contain the smile on his face as he sat in his armchair and reached for the paper. He couldn’t see the words in front of him, all his eyes wanted to look at was the impossible man in the kitchen desperately trying to open the Worcestershire sauce bottle. 

Hidden behind his smile and the newspaper, John watched Sherlock stand over the saucepan full of potatoes, trying to control what was happening in the frying pan next to it as his shirt was being adorned with tiny splashes of color. Come December, John would be shopping for a custom apron. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Sherlock’s face when he unpacked it.    

“Now 25 minutes in the oven,” Sherlock mumbled to himself as he fumbled with the egg-shaped timer.  

The footsteps on the stairs and an evident lack of preceding doorbell made them both look at each other.  

“Lestrade,” announced Sherlock, quickly unrolling his sleeves and closing the door to the kitchen behind himself. He jumped into the sitting room and took his place on the armchair, all in a matter of a couple of seconds. 

“The foreign secretary’s son is missing,” Greg fired out as he unceremoniously pushed the door open. One day, John thought, he’d have to start locking this door or Greg might witness something he shouldn’t.  

“Which one? The older or the younger?” Sherlock fired back, his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at ankles and fingertips steepled under his chin, acting as if he hadn’t splashed sauce and oil all over his shirt. 

Lestrade took in Sherlock’s questionable attire, looked at John who offered a shrug and then turned back to Sherlock. “The older one. It’s been three days but he has run away before so they hadn’t informed the police until today when they started suspecting that maybe he had been kidnapped.” 

“Horse Tunnel Market.” 

“Pardon?” 

“The Horse Tunnel Market,” Sherlock sat up, “Camden Market, Lestrade. That’s where you’ll find him. He probably sleeps there. If you go this evening...” he looked at his watch, “in an hour. He’ll be in Cyberdog, there's an event tonight.” 

“How did you...?” Lestrade tossed a look between John and Sherlock again. 

“Just go. Go, lives are at stake. The country needs you. Go!” Sherlock shooed Greg out of the room as if he were a chicken and closed the door behind him.  

He took all but one step towards the kitchen as a short, sure ring of a doorbell sounded. Sherlock opened the door to a helpless-looking woman and after taking one look at her, he instructed her to take the client’s chair. 

She told them about the burglary at her house and how only a few inconsequential items had been taken. The more she divulged about her incident, the more interested Sherlock became. The ringing sound from the kitchen came and went as the client’s story unfolded. They made arrangements to stop by her house the following morning.  

After the client had left, Sherlock was rubbing his hands like a praying mantis at the prospect of an interesting case. Then his face abruptly fell, brow furrowed and with a quick panicked look at John, he ran into the kitchen. The puff of smoke that enveloped the room when Sherlock opened the door made him completely invisible to John. They started coughing simultaneously. John heard a clattering sound from Sherlock’s general direction. 

“My pie is ruined!” came the distraught wail. 

“There’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear coming out of your mouth,” John laughed heartily. His eyes filled with tears and he didn’t care if it was from laughter or the smoke. Sherlock’s laughter interspersed with coughing joined him a moment later as they both went towards the windows to clear the flat of the smoke before Mrs. Hudson called the fire department. 

 


End file.
